


The Cup That Cheers

by inamac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Ghosts, Historical, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/inamac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1966.  Minerva has always maintained that she only uses her ability to turn into a tabby cat for legitimate Order business.  But when her brother calls with an urgent request for help, she finds herself dealing with very different business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cup That Cheers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HP Reversathon 2012. I asked for a 'date' prompt, and something related to 'subsidiary canon' (the Comic Relief books and _Beedle_. captainraychill gave me 1966 and asking for a story based on _the assumption that the footnote on page 81 of my copy of_ Beedle the Bard _... is a LIE._
> 
> Thanks to my beta for identifying an event in 1966 on which this is based. There are more details in the endnotes. I have used (some) of JKR's background for Minerva from _Pottermore_ \- but I don't believe a word of it.

o0o

Minerva McGonagall was used to receiving urgent floo messages that sent her on dangerous missions across the length and breadth of the British Isles. Any member of the Order of the Phoenix might rouse her at any time, day or night, and find her ready to respond with common sense advice, if not her physical presence.

So when the fire in her private sitting room at Hogwarts flared to life one windy morning in the spring of 1966 she merely set aside her quill (the Editor of _Transfiguration Today_ would have to wait a little longer to receive her thoughts on the latest Ministry Approved text book – which were forthright), and knelt to see whose message was so urgent that it would not wait for normal communication times.

"Min? Hello? Are you there?" The voice held a Scottish lilt, despite the fact that the speaker had been living in London for well over a decade now. "Min, I need your help."

Minerva sighed. This was going to be just like Fifth Year at Hogwarts, being dragged into every little problem and scheme of her brothers as well as trying to study for her own exams. That she had passed with such high marks was a tribute to her focus and innate transfiguration skills. Of course, having access to a time-turner had helped.

She leaned over the cold flames to see which of them it was this time.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Oh Min. Thank goodness." The relief was heartfelt, the answer to her question baffling. "I've lost the Cup!"

Ah. So, it was Malcolm then. He was forever losing things and running to her for help. She had vivid memories of a day spent alternatively reassuring and berating him when he had lost his virginity the day before taking his NEWT potions practical . It had been pure luck that the set potion had not required a preparatory period of celibacy, but Malcolm was usually lucky, despite his forgetfulness. For example, although obviously in a panic, he had still managed to contact her. Which suggested that matters were probably not as bad as he thought.

"Calm down and tell me exactly why losing a crup is so urgent that you are calling me at this hour on a secured Floo."

"Not a crup, the cup. I used the crup to – but that doesn't matter, what matters is the World Cup. And I've lost it!"

He had clearly lost something – coherence for one. Minerva sighed. Her relaxing Sunday was doomed so she might as well find out what Malcolm had got up to now. "Where are you?" she asked, hoping that he had found somewhere discreet to make his call. A hope smashed by his reply.

"I'm at the Leaky Cauldron. I've booked a room. I couldn't think of anywhere else in a hurry. I'm in Room Eleven."

At least he wasn't calling from the main bar.

"Wait there. Give me an hour to get ready." And you an hour to calm down, was the unspoken corollary. He nodded, and his face faded from the flames. Minerva sat back on her heels and ran a hand through her hair. Really, at thirty six Malcolm was as much trouble as her First year students all rolled together.

o0o

It was just past Sunday closing time when Minerva stepped out of the fireplace in the Lounge Bar of the Leaky Cauldron. Josh, the barman, was cleaning up the debris of the Sunday lunchtime crowd, and gave her no more than a nod as she crossed the room and made her way upstairs to the inn rooms.

Number eleven was on the first floor, tucked into a corner at the top of the stairs. She knocked, and was answered by a thud, a scrabbling sound and a sharp bark that cut off before the handle turned to reveal a dishevelled dark-haired wizard whose sharp nose and high cheek-bones marked him as a member of Clan McGonagall. His initial expression of apprehension gave way to one of relief as he recognised his visitor.

"Min! Thank goodness. You took your time. I've been waiting for ages."

Minerva looked around the room. Although he said that he had taken it only that morning he had certainly got his full use of it, The bed was dishevelled, the ashtray on the bedside table overflowing, and the bottle of firewhisky almost empty. Her brother was in no better shape. It was just as well that she had come prepared. She set her carpet bag on the table, extracted a bottle of sobering potion and handed it to him with an expression that was exactly the same as the one that their mother had used when dispensing childhood medication.

"Now," she said, sitting primly on the upright chair beside the fireplace and waiting for the potion to do its work, "Tell me what you've done this time."

"I _told_ you! I lost the World Cup!"

Minerva waited. Eventually Malcolm pushed his hands through his already unruly hair and sat down on the bed.

"It was Callum's idea. You know Callum?"

"Callum Cameron? Beater for the Prides? The wizard who bludgered the snitch right into the hands of the Scotland Seeker during the 1964 World Cup? Yes, the name is vaguely familiar."

Malcolm nodded, evidently too worried to notice his sister's heavy irony. Every wizard in Britain could name the '64 Scotland team and the fluke gameplay that had won them the World Cup. "Well, the guys were round at Callum's place for his 30th, and he's got a replica of the Cup on his mantlepiece, so we were talking about it when Simon (you remember Catriona's Muggleborn fiance?) said something about the Muggle World Cup being more important because there are more British football teams than there are Quidditch teams, so they have more players to select from – which I don't think is a sensible argument 'cos everyone learns Quidditch at school so any wizard who can ride a broom counts for selection, and Callum reckoned that there's a lot more skill in playing with three balls, though –,"

Minerva's stern look halted this diversion, and he swallowed the rest of the argument.

"So, anyway, someone said that we couldn't compare the players, but the Muggles had their World Cup on display in London, so we could go and look at it and see how it compares with ours."

"And how," asked Minerva, who did not need a crystal ball to see where this narrative was going, "did _looking at the Muggle World Cup_ become _losing the Muggle World Cup_?"

"Well...," Malcolm had the grace to look sheepish, "I said we wanted to compare the cups, and we'd forgotten to bring Callum's replica, and someone bet that it would only take a couple of unlocking and levitation charms to get the thing out of its case and we could take it to Callum's place and it was Sunday so we thought that we could get it back in a couple of hours, before the Muggles noticed. So we did. And I was right, it was easy, but we were heading for Crystal Palace – there's a Muggle football pitch there and Simon – well, never mind, we never got there because somewhere over Norwood I... dropped it."

"You dropped it." Minerva repeated. "At least you won your bet. I hope it was worth it. Why didn't you pick it up? You were quick enough with your Summoning spells to steal it."

" _Borrow_ it," he protested. "And I tried everything I could, even went down and searched along the streets where we thought it had landed, but nothing worked. I don't know why. D'you suppose the Muggles have some sort of anti-theft Concealment Charm on it? "

"You walked around in Muggle London?" Minerva was beginning to think that the tale couldn't get any worse. At least it was Sunday and the streets must have been empty. Nevertheless, wizards in full robes carrying broomsticks would not be inconspicuous.

"Yes. But it's all right, I used my Animagus form. No-one would have bothered about seeing a crup nosing around. And I was careful to ask people who couldn't see that it was a dog talking."

It could get worse. "Oh crivens Malcolm!" she exclaimed. "If you didn't pay attention during Transfiguration lessons at school you should at least remember your nursery books! Nothing good ever comes of fooling with Muggles. They're not all idiots. Who did you think you were? Babbity Rabbit?"

"I know, I know." Malcolm's voice at least sounded contrite, as well as panicked. "And I _promise_ I won't do it again. But will you help, Min? Please?"

She stood and opened the carpet bag. "By rights," she said sternly, I should report this to the Ministry and they can have the Aurors look into it."

Malcolm looked horrified. "But we're not Dark Wizards! It was just a mistake!"

"Or we can try to find it ourselves before the Ministry finds out itself that wizards were involved – of whatever hue."

"Min! You will help! Thanks."

"I don't seem to have a choice. But this is positively the last time." She spread open the bag and extracted her broomstick and a silver-mounted purse which she tucked into her cloak pocket alongside her wand. "Now, get your broom and we'll try and retrace your flight and see exactly what has happened to this cup."

o0o

Dusk was beginning to fall when they rose above the roofs of Diagon Alley and set out across London.

They flew with the bats. The City, on this March Sunday evening, was empty. Shops shuttered, offices dark, traffic sparse on both road and River.

They paused over Westminster for long enough to see the tangle of police cars and reporters clustered around the cordoned entrance to Central Hall; the theft had not only been discovered, but would be on that night's Muggle news. Then, at Malcolm's direction, they headed South, crossing the Thames a little above Lambeth Bridge with the soot-blackened red brick of the Tudor Lambeth Palace, an incongruous architectural anachronism amid the new steel-framed buildings rising out of the detritus of bombsites now twenty years old, on their left and the towering chimneys of Battersea Power Station, two belching smoke, to their right.

Further on, the Oval was a green oasis, deserted not only for Sunday but for the season. They were flying higher now, as it grew darker, following the railway lines snaking out of Vauxhall, down through the close-packed Victorian streets of Brixton and Streatham, out over Brockwell Park with its lido reflecting the rising moonlight, and on, following the lights of a late train over the rise of Tulse Hill, to the leafier suburbs of Crystal Palace and Norwood.

"There!" Malcolm drew his broom to a halt and pointed downwards, to a dark blot on the landscape. Minerva flew in a wide circle, wand out to cast a seeking charm, and understood why her brother had panicked.

The location was warded. Old Victorian spells, set down in a patchwork of _notice-me-not_ , preservation, protection, security, growth, memory and a dozen less identifiable charms, old and failing, crumbling with the stone and iron and wood and lead to which they were attached, but still strong enough to confuse an unwary wizard. Malcolm and his clumsy friends had dropped their stolen Muggle artefact into the Wizarding area of the South Metropolitan Cemetery.

A Summoning charm certainly would not have worked here. The families who owned these tombs and catacombs would not want any passing wizard's _Accio_ to bring whatever valuables had been interred with their dead out of their last resting place. So it would have to be searched in the Muggle way.

Following Malcolm's gesture, the two wizards carefully guided their brooms down onto the tree-lined road that ran along the North side of the cemetery. The wall which separated the domain of the dead from that of the living was a high barrier of black-stained brick. Minerva dismounted and examined the enamelled sign that had been fixed to it.

To one side, and partly overlapping the edge of the enamel, a second paper notice had been pasted, notifying anyone who might be interested that "Under the provisions of the Compulsory Purchase Act 1965 this land is now the property of Lambeth Borough Council. Trespassers will be prosecuted."

"Hmmm," she mused. "Typical Muggles, not being able to make up their minds."

A simple revelation spell showed that the wall was a barrier not only to Muggles but also to magic. Minerva and Malcolm walked along its length, careful not to encroach on the four foot exclusion zone mandated by the sign, and eventually reached the entrance gates with their gothic ironwork and Greek pediment, also bearing the name of the South Metropolitan Cemetery Company. The gates were fastened with a bolt and a padlock, both, it proved, immune to magical unlocking charms. It seemed that both the Muggle and Wizarding world were determined that no one should enter the place without authority to do so.

The witch and the wizard examined the barrier thoughtfully.

"A cat could get in," said Malcolm. "A very _slim_ cat.

Minerva smiled. 

They propped their broomsticks against the stonework and wove concealing charms over them, and then, with a certain amount of smug delight, Minerva Transformed.

Although the cat form she had registered with the Ministry was a tabby with distinctive spectacle markings, and it was in that guise that she most frequently went on surveillance missions for the Order, it was by no means her only Animagus form. Minerva had learned very young that it paid to keep ones options open. She had once, quite honestly, reassured Albus that, apart from her forays on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix (and occasional personal errands requested by Albus – really, the apothecary in Hogsmeade was perfectly used to selling items of an intimate nature to adult Professors, and there was no need for Albus to be such a prude), that she had never used the ability to turn into a tabby cat for any surreptitious purpose.

It wasn't a _lie_ exactly. She had just been parsimonious with the truth.

Thus it was that, a few moments later, a slender blue-pointed Siamese cat wove its way between the bars of the ornate iron gates and sauntered along the pathway with the air of absolute ownership typical of its breed.

The path curved between overgrown bushes, ancient oak trees, and the square bulk of gravestones and memorials and soon the glow of the streetlights was left behind, leaving the cat to rely on its heightened senses of sight and smell. The place was huge, acres of land much too large and complex for a single cat to search. She was contemplating transforming back and using some basic finding charms when an unexpected voice hailed her.

"Hello, Kitty! You're new here."

She looked up. A young man, dressed in the style of an Edwardian clerk, stiff collar, buttoned jacket, ink-stained cuffs, bowler hat and all, was lounging on the steps of an impressive Gothic monument. She paused, one dusty paw lifted, as she considered this new complication. Of course, there would be ghosts in a graveyard. Particularly a wizard's graveyard.

Perhaps searching the whole place would not be such a daunting task after all.

"It's all right, Puss, I won't hurt you." He reached down and ran his hand along her back. She felt no more than a cool breeze, but the action seemed to comfort him. It was well know that all cats could see ghosts, and they were often the only visitors to some haunted places. The question was whether this young man was a wizard (or rather, had been a wizard while alive), and, if not, how he would react if she transformed back to her usual form to ask for his help.

She found herself sitting beside him on the steps of the tomb, thoughtfully washing her left ear with one paw. That was the problem with being an animagus, sometimes one lost track of what ones body was doing while the mind was working on the human level.

On the other hand, she did now have a very clean ear. She swapped paws and did the other one while the young ghost continued to pet her.

"You shouldn't come in daylight though," he said. "There's been a lot of dreadful upheaval lately. It isn't safe for a cat." He gazed sorrowfully at the cracked lid of the tomb opposite. "I'm not sure it's going to be safe for us ghosts for much longer. Even Ambassador Berens is worried."

Her ears pricked. Berens was definitely a well known Wizard name, though a foreign one. Otto Berens had been the Prussian Ambassador to the Ministry of Magic. His daughter, sent to Hogwarts rather than being educated in her home country, had been an accomplished Legilimens, who had married into the Malfoy family.

She was about to transform and interrogate the young ghost properly when another voice hailed him.

"Nicky? Are you there? What are you doing?" A girl of about eighteen years old was approaching along the path, clad in the sort of fashionable day dress that she might have worn to attend the Great Exhibition, probably only a few months before she had died. Her crinoline flared around her giving her the appearance of gliding like some sort of new-fangled Muggle hovercraft. The costume was a generation older than the suit Nicholas wore, though she was clearly a few years younger than him.

He straightened from his negligent pose against the tomb and Minerva had the impression that he would be blushing if he was not a ghost.

"Hello, Fanny. I was talking to our new visitor. Look, isn't he handsome?"

The girl bent to inspect Minerva. "He's a she," she said. "She's very strange, with those blue eyes. I've never seen a cat like that. I wonder if she's some sort of Kneazle? "

That, Minerva decided, was her cue. Both of these were plainly wizard-ghosts. She stepped away from the base of the tomb, turned three times (cat instincts were still driving her), and Transformed.

Fanny's eyes widened, and she gave a little scream, bitten off as Nicholas put himself between her and this new danger. Minerva gave him mental house points for gallantry. Hufflepuff, probably.

"Good evening," she said, dusting her skirts down. "I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, presently Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts. My apologies for inadvertently deceiving you, but I could find no other way in here, and I have an urgent mission."

The mention of Hogwarts calmed them both down. The young man proffered his hand and introduced himself as Nicholas Penny. The girl curtseyed. "Fanny Maitland," she said. For all her Victorian politeness her colourless eyes were dancing with excitement. "You are welcome to what poor hospitality we can give, and to our assistance."

Gryffindor, thought Minerva, recognising her own youthful recklessness when faced with the chance of new adventure and acquaintances, if the girl had even been Sorted – in Victoria's day most witches had been educated at home in those domestic spells that were considered suitable for a young lady wishing to make a good marriage. She explained her presence, and the need to search the cemetery for the missing trophy. Nicholas looked thoughtful.

"It will take more than three of us," he said. "We had better ask the Ambassador to help. He organises everything here."

Fanny nodded. "And he will be glad of news of the outside world now. Come, I will lead the way."

She moved off along the path, lighting the way with her own ghostly glow. Minerva and Nicholas followed, though the latter seemed somewhat reluctant. She understood why when they reached their destination. 

It was a chest tomb the size of a small chapel, in medieval Italian style mounted on a tall pink granite plinth. The ghostly traces of original railings, and elaborate bronze doors to the vault below were visible only as echoes of the original preserving spells, the metal itself had long since been removed by Muggles, probably plundered for the War effort, and the entrance roughly bricked up, in contrast to the opulence of the remaining structure. There was a chipped frieze of Minton tiles around the top of the plinth at Minerva's eye-level alternating the letter B and the symbol of a bear. She looked up to see a marble confection owing more to the style of Charles I than Victoria. Free-standing, paired barley sugar columns surrounded the chest and supported carvings of kneeling angels around a hipped roof of grey weathered and battered slabs of unadorned stone. Onto this basic structure had been applied such a profusion of sculpture; angels, evangelists, biblical scenes, crosses and foliage and geometric shapes, that the second frieze of tiles with their Latin inscription, and the names and dates of the tomb's occupant were overwhelmed. The thing had been designed to intimidate, and to proclaim the importance and wealth of its occupant. The small tree growing out of one corner of the broken roof rather spoiled the effect.

"Ambassador?" Fanny called, facing the bricked-up doorway.

They waited nearly a minute, and Minerva was beginning to think that there would be no response, when a very Victorian gentleman in side-whiskers, wearing full ceremonial robes, a tall pointed wizard's hat, and carrying an ebony cane with a carved bear's head handle, emerged from the vault.

"Yes, my dear?" he asked, with the air of one preoccupied with important business and annoyed at being disturbed.

Fanny curtseyed. "We have a visitor, Ambassador. A witch from Hogwarts who requires our assistance."

The Ambassador turned and examined Minerva, who responded with a curt nod, as to an equal. "Professor McGonagall," she said. "One of my – colleagues, has mislaid a trophy somewhere in this graveyard, and I would appreciate some assistance in finding it.

He nodded. "I see. And what do you have to offer in return for our help?"

Minerva considered the galleons in her purse, but a ghost would have no use for gold. Then she remembered the sign on the wall outside. "Information," she said. "I understand that you are concerned about the future of your haunt, now that the responsibility for maintaining your monuments has passed from the hands of the South Metropolitan Cemetery Company."

That surprised him, though he covered it well, with the long practice of one who dealt in Wizard politics while alive. "Such information would be very welcome," he said. "And whatever assistance the Wizarding world can offer to those of us who served it so well in the past. We seem to have been forgotten here in our corner of this great Metropolis." He turned to the two young ghosts. "Will you summon the others here? Professor, you will need to describe this trophy if we are to find it. I think it best if you wait here until we have news."

She nodded. Even if one of the ghosts did discover where the World Cup had fallen to earth they would still be unable to pick it up to bring it to her.

It was a group of some twenty ghosts who finally assembled in the moonlight. Their ages ranged from five to fifty, and their eras from the 1840s to the present day. Minerva described the Cup as Malcolm had described it to her (with some reference to the angels which decorated the tomb behind her – if there was one thing that the denizens of a graveyard could be relied on to recognise it was a winged female figure, whether Christian or Pagan in origin), and watched them disperse, pale lights drifting among the bushes and monuments.

The Ambassador, meanwhile, engaged her in conversation. It was clear that he, like the rest of the ghosts, was concerned at the dereliction and destruction of the cemetery. They had seen the gates locked, and the new notices pasted up, but, since they were on the outer walls, designed to inform passing Muggles rather than the dead occupants of the place, the ghosts were unaware of what they said. Minerva could give only a little more information – that the company which had been set up to run the cemetery had apparently been forced to sell the place to the local council, but that what plans they had for the future would require more investigation on her part (or rather, she decided, on Malcolm's, since her presence here was his fault, and he lived locally and had the resources to look into the intentions of the Muggle authorities). The Ambassador was reassured by her news though. Surely a properly elected body would not have taken over the responsibility for the place if it did not intend to repair and improve it?

Minerva did not have the chance to express her doubts, for at that moment a young ghost, a child who could not have been much older than five, came running up the pathway.

"I've found it!" he shouted. "Professor, come and look!" He was so eager that he tried to pull at her hand, though his grasp passed through. She smiled at his enthusiasm, and hurried after him.

They wound through the graves, and he stopped at last in the Muggle part of the cemetery and pointed to a white marble cross.

"Look!" he said.

For a moment her heart fell. There was a trophy. A double-handled lidded cup, embellished with scrollwork in the finest Victorian tradition, but it was carved on the face of the cross like a bizarre form of sporting crucifix. "I don't think..." she began, and then realised that the child was pointing to the base of the memorial, where, propped against the marble steps, was a cup, exactly as Malcolm had described it. She reached out and lifted it from its resting place. It was much heavier than she expected, and she realised that it was made of solid gold. There was a small dent in the rim, where it had struck against the stone in falling, but nothing that the most basic of repairing charms could not heal.

"Is that it?" asked the child.

She smiled. "Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you."

"Thank you, Professor," came a voice from behind her. The Ambassador was leaning on his cane, his expression grave. "You will not forget your promise?"

She nodded. Even had she not made it, compassion would have forced her to do something for these forgotten ghosts. She suspected that the neglect and threat to their resting places was keeping at least a few of them Earthbound. She would do what she could, both in the Wizarding world and the Muggle one. "I will remember," she said. "And I will ensure that others do too."

"Then we both have what we want. You had better leave now. You may use your broom. I have released the magical protections for you."

She was grateful for that. The night was growing cold, with a threat of rain in the air, and Malcolm, not very patient at the best of times, would be very nervous by now.

In fact Malcolm, in the shape of a small black-and-white dog, was curled up in the shelter of the gates fast asleep. Minerva kicked him awake with rather more force than was strictly necessary.

"Well," she said, "I have your geegaw, but there is a price." 

Although he had transformed into his normal wizard shape, there was definitely something of the hangdog puppy expression on his face. Minerva sighed. It had been a long night and she still had to make sure that Malcolm and his friends made amends for their ill-advised jaunt. She wrapped the Cup in a fold of her cloak and mounted her broomstick.

"Come along then. We'll take this back to the Cauldron. And then I will explain exactly what I want you to do."

o0o

A week later the Muggle newspapers reported the astonishing story of the return of the missing World Cup. It had been found by a 'small black-and-white mongrel dog named 'Pickles', wrapped in newspaper in a street in South Norwood.

Minerva, relaxing in her sitting room in Hogwarts, received the news from her brother – and smiled. Sometimes animals could do things that humans never could.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on some of the people and places in the story:
> 
> The 1966 World Cup - The Soccer World Cup competition is held every four years, in a different host country. In 1966 the host country was England. The Cup itself – the solid gold Jules Rimet Trophy – was on display in Westminster (alongside an exhibition of stamps), when it was stolen on 20th March. (More information here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/march/20/newsid_2861000/2861545.stm).
> 
> The South Metropolitan Cemetery – was one of 'The Magnificent Seven' landscaped private cemeteries set up under an 1836 Act of Parliament to provide burial places for London's increasingly large population. It contains a number of important monuments, together with a chapel and catacombs. In 1966, following increasing neglect, Lambeth Council purchased the site, extinguished rights over the graves, and began a 'lawn conversion' which involved removing over 10,000 gravestones and monuments – the majority of which were broken up and sent for landfill. It was not until the 1990s that public outcry put a brake on the Council's actions. A court case required them to publish a list of the persons whose memorials had been removed (a list which is the source of Nicholas and Fanny in this story), and to work with English Heritage and the newly formed Friends of West Norwood Cemetery (as the site is now known) to conserve the remaining monuments. My thanks to FOWNC for their comprehensive Newsletters which provided much of the material for this story. Their site is at http://www.fownc.org/
> 
> Otto Berens, whose name I have unashamedly borrowed, is buried in one of the most impressive (Grade II Listed) tombs in West Norwood. The small tree growing out of the roof of his monument in 1966 (shown in this English Heritage photograph: http://viewfinder.english-heritage.org.uk/search/detail.aspx?uid=75116) was not removed until 1993. Renovations are still ongoing.
> 
> The F A Cup: C W Alcock (1842-1907) is buried at West Norwood. He is credited with founding Test Cricket and introducing The Football Association Cup. The monument I have described here – a white marble cross with an image of the F A Cup - exists only in period photographs, a new monument was installed at West Norwood recently.
> 
> Pickles was a black and white collie-cross dog (not a Jack Russell terrier) which discovered the Jules Rimet trophy wrapped in newspaper in Norwood on 27th March, a week after it had been stolen.


End file.
